


and dread, that unusual aphrodisiac

by sybilius



Series: count to ten and run for cover (B-sides) [8]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966), The Cask of Amontillado - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Being bricked up in a wall as Edgar Allen Poe intended, Fear Play, Fear of Death, I roll on poe's grave with this fic, M/M, Masturbation, Not that explicit really, One very minor forced drinking thing that's really consensual tbh, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, cellar, did you ever want to read the cask of amontillado but be horny AND afraid?, greyasexual character, well this is THE FIC FOR YOU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: The thousand injuries of my own reckless greed for pleasure had left no scar upon me; but here! I will venture to tell you of one night I will never forget.*Ambiguously set in an older Italy. Tuco has a kink. Angel Eyes likes to indulge it.





	and dread, that unusual aphrodisiac

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, you know what this is right? I rewrote The Cask of Amontillado to be horny and sweet.
> 
> "Thanks, I hate it!" you say?
> 
> You're welcome ;)
> 
> You don't really need to know "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly" to read this, though I'm ostensibly basing the dynamic off of the "count to ten and run for cover" trio.

The thousand injuries of my own reckless greed for pleasure had left no scar upon me; but here! I will venture to tell you of one night I will never forget. 

You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will know I gave no concrete suggestion to my lover of  _ what _ exactly a tryst colored by terror would entail.  _ Dio sa _ , most of fear is surprise! But I'd found a man most creative in that respect, and on that night, the  _ petit mort  _ he granted me was nearly the death of me. 

I ought to have known that our  _ angelo della morte _ was up to something that night from his heavy cloaked apparel. On a night of such madness and revels! Even I had put myself into the fool’s uniform that I’m so often cheekily told would suit me by one blonde-haired lord dressed in a Spanish peasant’s poncho. You ask me, he looked near fool as I was! 

Besides, between us two unlikely partners, tarnished silver tongues of the law, it’s  Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez who ought to have that cloth settle on his shoulders. 

But never mind, the wine must be going to my head! I was talking about Angel Eyes. 

The pleasure at seeing me, alone with my flask of heady wine, sparked straight to those dusty brown eyes that were his namesake. He took my hand, squeezed it intimately, not letting go even after what would be appropriate for polite company.  _ Mio dio,  _ he had something in that infernal mind of his that night. 

“My dear Tuco. You are luckily met,” he rumbled carefully, a wicked bent in his smile, "I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado. And I have my doubts." 

Now there was a fine suggestion, that filled me with fear and fire up to the ridiculous jingle of my cap. When we began our affair, he suggested wine being the encoded invitation to a night of such debased pleasures.

I blinked, feigning drunkenness, “An invitation to the cellar? On such a night as this? In the middle of the carnival?”

“I see you are alone-- will you be missed?" 

"Amontillado! In the middle of the carnival!" 

"If you are engaged, I could seek the company of Blondie…"

"Blondie has no taste for Amontillado, much prefers  _ sherry,"  _ a little joke, though Blondie has his own proclivities as well as I. That jute pulled tight to a death rattle! One man's pleasure is another's horror. 

Fortunately for us both, Angel has always had an interest in indulging both. 

"Some fools might say his taste is a match for your own," he shrugs self deprecatingly, always deft with the  _ double entendre. _ And yet also, the easy escape, should I wish it. 

As was my furtive and dangerous habit, I wished for no such thing. 

"Come, let us go."

"Whither?" playing the fool never did suit Angel, but quixotic feigned ignorance is an endearing sight on his cheekbones. 

"To your vaults." 

"You are certain? The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." 

Damn him for playing upon my tastes like a violin. It was far too easy for him to notice the effect that fornicating in the cellars had on me. To tease me in the public eye like this--

"Let us go, nonetheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon."

"As you wish it."

And with that, his smile vanishes behind a mask of black silk. I take the lead in traversing the carnival to the Romano Palazzo. The last time we'd entered such suspension of reality he'd called it by the name of Medoc. Of course, ever the mind for detail, he had brought the wine then, heady and flowered but with something metallic beneath. Suited the manacles that he'd correctly surmised I had a taste for. But then, he'd been too attentive for me to believe the theatre! 

For all his sharp features wear cruelty as well as that featureless mask, the man doesn't have the black Romano heart. So much the better for me! My peculiarities led me to cover the sensations of fear, but only a hint at the physical pain that real danger would be accompanied with. 

I'll admit his palazzo still did strike a mild fear in me when we had first began this arrangement-- so much wealth! Tuco Ramirez would never be any kind of heir to it. But for all Angel's indifference to it, I suppose it's why the man rankles against his given name. 

Were it another day, I'd have been more familiar, set the mud of my boots to scuffing his floors and regaling him of mine and Blondie's successes at slipping the noose. But my lover had other plans, tugging me through the labyrinthine halls. 

Who would I be, to deny him? Or myself? 

"No one at home, eh?" I remarked, half expecting to see Susan around an errant corner. 

"I gave them the night free to do as they please," he smiled at me, near ghoulish as he set the mask on an impressive armoire, "besides, what calls would there be to hear on a night such as this?"

What indeed. I have to give him credit, for his gaze, ravenous in a way that put a shiver in me. I remember it even now. Or perhaps that was the gust of cold when he opened the door to the vaults. He passed me a torch, the light hollowing ungodly miracles on his cheeks. The archways of the Romano vault seemed grand, at first few steps, but soon gave way to a crumbling rot that seemed to hint at collapse; narrow passageways that an assailant could easily be hiding in. 

Kindled the fear in my chest, in any case-- followed by the warmth in my groin. 

"See, the nitre grows along the walls," he then crowded me sharply against them, turning up my chin to his height-- though it ran against what I knew to be his plans, I pressed my lips to his. 

The hunger in my lover's eyes, that was easy to read. And he does have such a wicked tongue,  _ mierda.  _ Sometimes I think it a shame I best respond to other types of wickedness. 

Which Angel knew well, as he pulled back with a dark smirk on his lips, beckoning deeper underground. The chorus of dripping water became more frequent-- in spite of myself the damp caught me by the throat, and I was forced to cease our descent, wracked by violent coughs. Angel’s pinched brow showed concern-- but he did not move forward to tenderness, seeing me finding myself steady.

“Are you so certain,” and here, the opportunistic arch to his brow was pure theatre. In spite of knowing this, it deepened the shiver in me, “you do not wish to go back? Your health is precious. You are a man to be missed. For me, it is no matter.”

Oh, so much self-deprecating truth told with such an uncharacteristic venom! Angel’s instincts set my teeth on edge that night, a rare gift. 

I swallowed my anticipation, “I shall not die of a cough.”

"True --true," he mused; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”

At this, the spark of glass hit my ears, as he knocked open a dusty bottle lying in wait. He again pressed moved close to my person, lifting the bottle to my lips. The question still in his eyes. I nodded, and the flash of concern in his eyes gave way to practiced indifference. 

"Drink," he said, as if he’d always intended to force it upon me. And the liquor burned, and from our closeness I am certain he could feel my arousal growing. 

He raised it to his lips with an exaggerated sneer, but despite seeing its insincerity, it did its work. The fear had set in my bones. The bells jingled on my cap, near-echoing in the cavernous silence. 

"I drink," I added, fighting the desire to cross myself, "to the buried that repose around us."

"And I to your long life."

The simplicity in the way he said it! It was in that moment,  _ mierda _ , that split second, I questioned my lover for the first time! The thrill in it! Just as he took my arm, bringing us deeper into the dark lit only by the dimming torches we carried. 

“These vaults are extensive,” I remarked, recalling no familiar alcove where we had been last engaged in these dark trysts. 

“The Romanos were a great and numerous family.”

“I forget your arms,” I mumbled brightly, half drunk from the wine on the back of my tongue. 

“A hand in bone, a sword held in offering.”

“And the motto?”

“ _ Eram quod es, eris quod sum _ ,” the hesitation in his voice bled through, “a grave inscription.”

I squeezed his arm, suddenly made somber by where the conversation had gone. But that evening -- for him, it was at least in part to shake off any kind of bloodstained honor his family had lain on his shoulders.  _ Santa maria, _ I was only too happy to help with that much. Still am. 

“Angel --” my voice had gone thick with emotion rather than arousal. He stopped, turning to me with a question in his eyes. One which I had no answer, or response for. 

“...a sign?” I said, nothing coming to mind. His brow unknitted, as if he'd expected this. He produced a trowel from the folds of his cloak. 

“It is in this.”

Now I had not a clue what he meant by this, but the dark narrowing of his eyes set me back on the heels of our true purpose. I could feel my heart starting to pound, “Let us proceed to the Amontillado.”

“As you wish it.”

He’d always said that to me, with such formality when we’d first kissed, shared a bed -- all that be damned, Angel had never been much for pleasures of the flesh, even with our  _ triello _ being as rapacious it is. But that wide-eyed devotion of his, that utter fascination with seeing another in thrall-- well, it makes a man far more willing to ask for bleak pleasures as these.

And indeed, there were  _ bones _ of all things, piled high in a corner of the vaults. The family, of course, went for the old macabre tradition of bones as ornament. I found myself wishing our walk to slow, my flesh singing with fear and desire in equal measure. We came to stand at last, at a niche so dark that my torch could not alight its end. 

I looked to my lover. He gestured without returning my gaze, his eyes shaded, “Proceed. Herein is the Amontillado.”

As I stepped past the threshold, the dip in my stomach hardening me to the absolute knowledge I was passing into a place of utter darkness, utter danger-- quick as a viper he manacled my feet to the granite. With not a trace of his characteristic tenderness he stripped me bare, the cap hitting the floor with a jingle, the cold setting my every sense to icy flame.  _ Christo _ , I fought, for all it made the sensations unbearable, the feelings of being alive and yet so close to what could take that from me. 

And in our tussle I let him feel that against him, the satin of his cloak against my cock a feverish softness. Contrasting with the cold stone tearing at the flesh of my back. For a frantic half minute he forced me to the wall, the chains clanking at our feet. I swear I toppled human bones in the struggle. But Angel had the advantage of height and terrain, if not strength, and the vicious bite to my shoulder when he stepped away let me know it was always part of the theatre.

"Pass your hand," he said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."

It was then he took out the trowel. 

The sensation was too much upon me then --  _ mierda _ , I almost begged him to finish what he started, I was so close. But he stepped back to the entranceway, the sound of bones clattering over a moment later. And it was then I saw him return with an armful of brick. 

Now what hellish tableaux had my lover envisioned? It was not until he’d lain the first row of brick, so industrious my mind could reason little but the scrape of the trowel. Until the shadow of the growing wall began to crawl towards me. 

_ Santa Maria.  _ He was to wall me up in there. 

I screamed-- there’s raw power in that, pleasure too, at turning every fibre of the fear in my naked body inside out -- it drew him back, I saw the figure move away. But he answered me, with a shriek of his own, so cacophonous it reached the near demonic, vibrating through me with a fear so complete my frayed senses redoubled upon me. I fell to silence, too shocked to speak. 

It was then that I heard the sheathing of steel, the rapier than Angel carried. 

Had the theatre truly driven my lover to bring out his sword? Had my screams terrified him so? 

Or was it, then, that he had long since shucked off the cloak of pretense, meant to leave me to rot among these bones? Oh that my terror was absolute, and it drove me to a madness of desperation. I brought my icy hands to my cock, fear fighting against fire at a pace I had never known. 

And still in the bare firelight before me, the wall grew row by row, and I would have no relief by my own hand -- fear of the veracity to overtake me! I fought against the razor sweetness of my own terror, reaching for pleasure-- but for all my efforts I could not do this alone. 

"For the love of God," I whispered, and even to my own ears the terror in me rang through the frustration. I could see but his eyes in the small gap from whence sprung the only light in that hell-like catacomb. 

" _ Mon tresor _ ."

At my word, even whispered as it was, the movements cease. Then with an ungodly clamour, the wall falls, I closed my eyes against the onslaught of stone dust before me-- 

And in an instant, a satin cloak was wrapped around me, warm hands, lips at my throat. I was alive, safe,  _ held.  _

My pleasure choked in my throat, and with a shiver that wracked me, I found release at last, heaving in the arms of that demoniac Angel. 

"Yes," he murmured, stroking my hair as I regained control of myself, "for the love of God."

We sat wrapped up in each other for God knew how long, until my skin began to warm at last. When he touched the manacles, I could see in the bare light of the torch the flash of regret in his gentle gaze.

"Did you believe it to be real?" 

"Much more so than before.  _ Dios mio,  _ Angel, it was better than anything I'd ever had," I'd lost my silver tongue, to tell him exactly of my gratitude. That was a sign unto itself.

He chuckled, undoing the manacles and gathering my clothes to me. I struggled to my feet as I watched him shrug off the now-ruined mess of his cloak. So as these meetings went. 

He caught me by the arm as I wavered, "Shall we retire?" 

"Yes, yes." 

There was the familiar man I knew, all grave and graceful care. For the return walk through the vaults he held me carefully, insisting gently on drawing a bath for us both. I'll tell you just this much, when we held each other completely bare in that warm water he drew for us himself, I could feel his arousal plain as my own had been. 

But he asked for nothing. He rarely does. So, we both have our funny little ways of getting pleasure out of life. 

I could tell he was in a fine mood when we lay down together between the carven posts of his bed. He moved close to me, at a hand placed on his shoulder, my lips at the back of his neck. 

"That truly was as near to death as I could manage and still such pleasure," I murmured into his ear, my limbs heavy with sleep, "Thank you, I don't know how you thought of it, but--"

"Sleep,  _ mon tresor _ ," he cut off my mumbling with that affectionate French of his, nudging his forehead against mine.

" _ In pace requiescat. _ "

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this lord knows you're as crazy as I am. Comments always welcome <3


End file.
